Author: Alex

Fucking hell..

On By AlexIn Other stuff, Site Stuff3 Comments

.. I am aware that swearing is lambasted, by those with gene-baked condescension and leather patched elbows, as substituting poorly for a limited vocabulary. And I know – my mum for one – there are many normal people, who have noses for purposes other than looking down, agree with them.

I’m not one of them. It’s a mental steam valve which relieves the pressure of a world tilting ever further to the arse biscuit side of sodding irritating. If we could just reclaim the centre ground of pragmatism, it would be perfectly acceptable to suggest to almost anyone “You are a world class F*CKWIT. I’ve met far more intelligent C*NTING ferns. I’d put my F*CKING house on your inability to locate your C*NTING ARSE with both BLOODY hands and a F*CKING copy of Grey’s C*NTING anatomy”

Through the shadowy power of latent parenting, I’ve gone with censoring stars but you’d hardly have to be a crossword wizard to work out what I’m talking about here. Remove the madness of political correctness and all will be well. And anyone who responds to an outraged – but perfectly crafted – fucking hell with “Why, when there are perfectly good beds in heaven?” shall be killed instantly. Both for the their ludicrous pretension at what lies beyond the pearly gates, and for being an prissy dog-lobber.

The reason for my base exclamation was the realisation that old hedgy is on an unprecedented third orbit of the planet. Even when you consider a new vanity publisher spears the blogsphere every second, and the certain truth that content is not even lightly tethered to intelligence, that is still somewhere beyond the furthest tenets of sanity. But rather than distress upon the past, we must look to the future and wonder how long can I possibly continue writing this drivel.

I was going to stop at Christmas but then became annoyed. And then new year sprung a new river of angst. Then I checked out how much real therapy costs and, frankly, that’s a fuck load of beer. Maybe going cold hedgehog with three weeks away in New Zealand might do it, and yet I’m already looking forward to spamming you all with a million pictures of children being hung over gorges and told to behave.

Right enough of wasting my Friday night writing this. Although wasting is a descriptively a little light as the beer fridge door has been seeing some action. Which generally leads to an orgy of expensive bike fettling. Just to be clear, the parts and frames were expensive before “Drunken Al and his Twirling Spanners” were loosed upon them. No where in the instructions for fitting a front mech are “Neck four bottles of beer before starting”.

And since we started with swearing, I’d better finish with yet more beer that my eldest – and almost antique – brother shall be necking to celebrate his 9 millionth birthday. I’ve emailed him to caution against a birthday riot of coke and hookers as he’s no longer the young man he thinks he is.

The hedgehog actually hit a toddling two on January 5th. But it is like British Rail* in here. Arriving eight days late, this post is statistically on time.

* Re-Nationalisation of our railways has been undertaken by stealth. And through the intelligence and integrity of our political class, we now have the worst of both worlds. For further study, see Foreign Policy, Domestic Policy, Tax System, Health Policy, etc. Oh God, this is why I don’t do politics. Because drinking for breakfast is ridiculously stigmatised.

Never say never

On By AlexIn Bikes, Clic-24, Mountain Bike Riding, Other stuff2 Comments

There are many things a man should do before he is forty. And having done those things, he should never ever, even under the most provocative of circumstance, try them again. Right at the top of my list are practical experiments involving body parts and the ground, and event based racing. Well any racing really because of a well documented lack of skill, fitness and motivation. Balance that with a surfeit of grumpiness, lycra xenophobia and a blossoming hatred of riding the same lap. Again, and again and again. And, er well that’s it really, about that time I just pack up and go home.

So no one was more surprised than I as somewhere between the secret project that cannot be named, buggering off to the other side the world for the best part of a month and trying to find even the smallest crack* in my work diary, that I’ve taken on team captaincy for the a 24 hour event held sometime in the not distant enough future.

CLIC-24 isn’t a race. Which is good because the slack crew, who failed to step back quick enough when I shouted out a volunteering email, and I aren’t going to be racing. We’re going to be raising money for CLIC-Sargent which is a silly name but that’s about where the funny stuff stops. It’s a fantastic charity supporting kids with cancer and their parents. And if – and I really think you should – spend some time reading their web site, you’ll be both amazed and saddened by what you see.

After ten minutes browsing around, I would have signed up for 24 hours of almost anything. Note the careful use of the word, almost. And don’t confuse my love of riding bicycles with the prospect of being marooned with 500 other nutters, especially after last year the event was essentially held underwater. And while – in the little Spirograph which represents my mind – I’m seeing myself Nelson-Esque dishing out serial laps to my underlings, realistically I’ll be putting down any mutinies with an extra beer ration and getting back out there myself.

Flickr - From Neil Cain

Oh that looks fun. I’ve spared you the mud. Be grateful.

And hating every minute of it. Still, straining for an upside, it does present an opportunity to annoy the rich people in the firm to handing over quite alot of cash. Between now and actually having to earn my sponsors cash, I intend to avoid any of that training nonsense and, instead, ensure my burgeoning bike collection is race-prepped – because the rider certainly ain’t going to be.

I fully expect a full on dither come the selection crunch, bringing with it the likelihood of borrowing a trailer and chucking the whole lot it – just in case. And while there could be a technical argument that I would be somewhat over-biked riding the SX Trail over the course, I’d much rather think of that as slightly under-terrained.

Please don’t let it rain. Please don’t. Because of the web of lies that will bolster my sponsorship efforts, I’ll be guilted into an out of tent/on a bike experience for which the words ‘fucking horrible’ were brought into existence for. Oh and talking of cash, on receiving confirmation that the Somerset Inquisition is ready for some new heretics, then I’ll be posting the justgiving link here. Quite often 😉

* In terms of white space not apportioned to endpointless meetings not something smutty, as I know at least a few of you were thinking. Me too 🙂

The Wizard of Ug.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Road RidingLeave a comment

This morning, a wintery wolf stalked our house while trying to blow it down. On incautiously stepping outside into the gloom, I was immediately slammed back against the door, throwing a shape best described as “involuntary star jump“. A swiftly hosted internal meeting was won over by a strong claim, by my enlarged frightened gland, that a cheeky crosswind topping 30 knots was not ideal cycling weather.

Swapping barn keys for car keys confirmed this concern as a ton of grippy metal was tossed about in the manner of a frisky salad. The whole “pass me the red shoes and call me Dorothy” experience was ratcheted up beyond surreal when an expensive suit hiding a tiny brain opened up an umbrella. His instinctive – if largely suicidal – reaction to a squally rain shower instantly transported my imagination to tales of tornado collected Texan cows being windily transported to the next state.

Well, if this fella was lucky, he’d touch down somewhere in the next county. If not, Belgium.

Honestly, what next – the Von Trapp family aurally eulogising over the harmonics of some Nazi filled Austrian hills? Sadly this was a fable too far and the only sounds were those of second hand tinny iPods, plus the twig like snapping of New Year Resolutions.

Steeling myself for tornado alley – London Style – I mentally trimmed my sails and adjusted my helmet to a piratically jaunty angle. And for what? The result was anticlimactic in more ways that one. I wheeled out into what could, at the fibbing end of charity, be called a stiff breeze. This is just another reason why London is rubbish – it can’t even do bad weather properly.

It can do murder though. Those drivers living with the disappointment of not receiving that dead cyclist for Christmas, had stuck one as priority one on their New Year’s list. My boredom with commuting has begun to breed a dangerous mindset; so when some fucknugget ambles across three lanes – one of which I was legitimately using – I am about <---- far from just smashing right into him. Because - and I really do mean this - because it’d teach the knob-bracket a bloody good lesson.

And tonight a taxi indicated, using that orchestral favourite of horn arranged for vigorous hand gesture, that a cyclist’s proper position is – both socially and geographically – in the gutter. He tested his theory with a deadly side swipe which I avoided using weary commuting autopilot. But sufficiently vexed by his actions, a feeling of irritation occupied my mind for the mile and a half it took to catch up with him.

At which point, I politely requested his immediate attention with a brisk tap on the window. I followed that up with a spitting line of invective which, had it been anywhere close to a proper sentence, would have gone something like “No Dickweed, my proper position is in front of you flicking the finger just like this” “Oh and you’re a total C**T”

I’ve got to get out of this city before it kills me.

Dead Cars Society.

On By AlexIn Other stuff2 Comments

I hate Autumn* because it brings with it a slow death to life and light. Three months of decay and dark aren’t even the worst part – that special place in my heart is reserved for the million car drivers who cherish the idea of a dead cyclist for Christmas.

And then we have the chronologically inaccurate “shortest day” or the slightly more caftan “Winter Solstice“. It brings with it a false dawn, which continues to creep into the day for a couple more weeks, and not much else.

Follow that up with a week long period of things unwanted; presents, relatives and marketing confused with sales. This is a once in a year opportunity to get both fatter and poorer while a recent Honours crony cackles – dragon like – on their hoard. Only smugger and with slightly more arrogance.

So they call this the festive season. And if giving is better than receiving, I’m bloody delighted to dispense with the whole arse of a thing for another year. And as giving segues into giving up, then we’re starting 2008 with slightly less cars.

As I’ve alluded to Autumn is traditionally a dying time. Dead leaves fall to the ground, dead cats get buried underground except for Schrodinger’s of course. That animal, in my considerable experience, is neither alive or dead – rather extremely pissed off and ready for a frenzied kill.

Anyway, it seems the positive karma of adding ever more new frames to Al’s pantheon of benign insanity, has had a negative effect on other household transport. Specifically Carol’s car which, after ten years of constant abuse, has finally succumbed in a mechanically mirrored biorhythm of the long stiff mog. Small stuff started to go wrong before, one day, it emitted neither light nor sound regardless of the brutal electric shock treatment of the jump leads.

Anyway it’s suffered enough so we’re going to put it out of its’ misery and, until we’re safely back from New Zealand, we’ll be doing with just the one. This means more testicle shrivelling commuting for me, which is absolutely fine as it is about time I rediscovered my “Inner Notherner“. I’ve been far to nice to people lately, and I’m worried this may have set false expectations.

But come March, our new car buying strategy will be based on a continuing sexual innuendo purchasing approach. After the Wanga, we have a Jazz. Great little car, and I’ve already asked Carol if she would like a big pink one. Although the metaphor breaks down – a little – once I’d enquired if it’d take six inches of bulging frame in the rear.

* Yes I know it is officially winter. What of it? Accuracy is hardly the bedrock of the hedgehog is it? I’ve been cogitating. As in old-cogitating.

No Years Resolutions.

On By AlexIn Other stuff5 Comments

What’s different about one day in the year? If you’d wanted to give up smoking, then the morning after a Marlboro mainlining session would have suggested itself as the ideal time. Same for alcohol, chocolate, goat molestation and Internet obsessions. In fact, a proper bender involving all of these sins could trigger a monk like abstinence of the whole bloody shebang.

And yet it it’ll all be radically free salads and pointless Gym membership for, oh, about a week before paper resolutions are crisped by the fiery power of anti-commitment.

This year – as for every year since I stopped kidding myself I was going to play on the wing for England – I’m promising nothing but to laugh at other people failing.

So my non resolutions include:

1. I am not joining a Gym.*
2. I am not going to ride every day.
3. I am not giving up alcohol.
4. In fact, I am not giving up anything that I enjoy doing.
5. In terms of avoiding needling people, puncturing pomposity, refusing to accept dumb rules and lampooning anything regardless of correctness, political or otherwise – see 4:

Like anyone with more ambition than a spoon, there are many things I’d love to do as I rumble into my fifth decade. But writing it all down and sticking it on a wall, so come this time next year it can mock me with its’ complete not doneness? That way lies madness or at least a very depressing end to 2008.

I’m as goal focussed as the next man, woman or hedgehog. But I’m a bit more tactical so while some of you will be planning great things, I shall go in search of another drink.

So come on then, what have you promised yourself?

* Any organisation that has a business model which assumes 90{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of it’s customers won’t turn up has my admiration. But not my money.

One speed, many problems

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding6 Comments

Stalking the netherworld is an immortal two wheeled beast. This mythical bicycle has crushed a million pedal revolutions, pushed back borders through seasonal campaigns and tramped thousands of miles with nary a mechanical glitch. And where the fabric of reality is thin, causality dictates that this phantom shade must take a form in the physical world.

Stripped of everything useful, pared back to minimalist engineering and unleashed on a unwitting global audience through the shadowy power of marketing, this free rolling allegory has a label, a name triumphantly proclaimed whenever muddy mountain bikers meet. It’s called a Singlespeed but beware innocent readers – it should be thought of as one gear but with many, many problems.

And back in the real world. the Wanga has just been on the receiving end of two hours maintenance and some blubbing. The paint has either fallen off or been defaced by some interesting looking hieroglyphics scarred in by muddy shorts or – because the paint is basically anorexic – passing shrubbery. The rear wheel has a bend like a boxer’s nose and the entire bike is guilty of removing a ton of Chiltern topsoil without permission.

All this after just one ride.

But what a ride it was. Even before we started the assembledge of unridden frame and manflu’d rider took on multiple whining personalities. Firstly the build flung together new brakes, juddery wheel and a chain line best described as “ah fuck it, close enough” – all of this under the influence of a holistic building approach that favours hammers over patience. Next up the rider has barely slept for three days and eaten even less frequently. The stomach bug that was going round has more gone through and out both ends. Banging at the door and demanding satisfaction were trail conditions, that have gone from hard to soft faster than an octogenarian deprived of his Viagra.

Trapped in this searchlight of disasters, it should be no surprise that barely ten minutes had passed before it all began to go wrong. The first climb exposed my mechanical incompetence as the complex rear dropout arrangement drove the rear wheel into the seatstay. On the downside, this meant hopping off, inverting the bike and struggling with allen keys of multiple width to put it back on the straight and narrow. On the upside, this was good practice for the subsequent five times the problem surfaced.

So as the bike took on a teenage personality and refused to leave its’ room, the rest of the riding package modulated on an empathetic wavelength, as snot streamed earthwards and lungs refused to fire. The mud was also becoming a little perturbing as a thaw injected previously frozen trails with a stash of trapped water. Riding downhill became a Hobson’s choice of two options; either pedal in the manner of modern waterwheel or, fall off.

It was at this grim point when I received a puncture from the Gods of Fate. Who are known for hating singlespeeders mainly on the grounds of their inane smugness. And while I have some time for that in general times, it seemed a little harsh to poke holes in both of my tyres at the same time. Bastards.

On the fourth attempt to make the rear wheel point in the same direction as the front, I couldn’t help noticing a rain of paint by torchlight. So while I was initially worried about losing paint on the chainstay, this was soon alleviated by huge swathes of previously glossy frame covering splitting with the host personality. I’m assuming this is a California thing, where paint is thinly added by a small child only recently graduated from colouring in stick men.

It really felt as if I was riding with multiple personalities – all of them pissed off at being dragged out on such a grim evening. Pulling them all through the gloop was a trial to be honest and as the mud turned tyres to slicks, my thoughts turned to summer. Or Prozac because one of the two was going to need to be on hand before I tried this again.

I expect you may have become conditioned, at this point, for me to extol the joy of conquering adversity. The sheer pride in getting through a ride like this, the banked karma of riding when it’s shit, and the joy is just getting out and riding whenever you can. But it wasn’t like that at all – it was just bloody awful and undeniably crap.

This morning picked over the remains. Last time I saw so many chips it had a fish served with them. I could cover it with tape but I’d end up insulating the entire bike. The whole idea of singlespeeds is that they are supposed to work in all conditions, with not so much as a spanner wielded. And that, by travelling through such conditions, the general patina will be that of extremely shonky.

As Meatloaf nearly said, one out of two ain’t bad.

Christmas presents..

On By AlexIn Other stuff, Site StuffLeave a comment

… a number of seemingly insurmountable challenges. First off is how to usefully occupy your time, before it is deemed appropriate to crack open a beer. Secondly, the correct make up and dosage of drugs for children suffering from chronic excitement. And some unspecified lurgey which has Random croaking like a 20-a-day man, and Verbal running a temperature high enough to risk imminent explosion.

I’m sure – come Santa time – a miraculous recovery will sweep through the family and instead we’ll all overdose on chocolate, pop and extreme present opening. I intend to avoid the annual relative cluster-hug by heading first back to work, and then over to a bikey Wales. This is merely displacement activity when faced with the real possibility of breaking Al’s life rule #1. You all remember Rule#1 don’t you?

Assuming I achieve a karmic balance between boredom and alcohol, the many unfinished drafts may bleed into published. Then you too can share the exasperation of your loved ones shouting “Will you get off that bloody computer and get on with vacuuming the cat“. For fifty one weeks of the year, our house is clean, tidyish and welcoming, but imminent in-law arrival triggers an illogical need to turn it into a show home.

This just puts everyone on edge, though you dare not sit down on one without running the risk of extreme dusting. But because this sort of stuff lives in the “never to be understood” slice of the life pie chart, I’ll treat it with respect and a bottle opener.

So until then, Happy Hedgehog from the holidays. Or something like that.

Travelling, Man.

On By AlexIn Other stuff6 Comments

Right first past the post with the pop artist who sang that un-comered title receives… something. No goggling, because I’ll know, and anyway it’s like falsifying your golf scores so you’re only cheating yourself. Although playing Golf* automatically cheats you out of most things anyway, except possibly life membership of the social cripple and comedy jumper societies.

Anyway enough of silly pastimes. And no, not for a minute could Mountain Biking ever be labelled silly. Bikes that cost more than cars, figure hugging lycra barely constraining middle aged spread, riding round in circles, getting muddy, spending the family savings on pointless pimpery and occasionally breaking out into “Dude, I railed that berm, pumped the jump, sent it over the drop and would’ve shredded the switchback except the rebound spiked the rotor arc. Bummer“. Whereas golf, don’t get me started.

New Zealand sits behind nine weeks of winter darkness, the liver damage triggered by in-law angst and New Year resolutions. Now the latter are funny, Icarus like in the face of a blazing sun, born in alcohol, crafted in imagined degrees of separation from the last time and burned in the fiery death of the real world. January brings train journeys long in faces and radically free salad, but short on joy. Roll forward a month and the comforting fug of pasties and Silk Cut once again envelopes the carriage.

Right the point. Don’t get excited, it is hardly worth waiting for but it does have novelty hat content. Because the concept of a package holiday – embedded with schedules, cracked out smiley guides and an atmosphere of Brian “grumpy as fuck” from Wolverhampton – resonates with a happiness frequency similar to the sticks and ball brigade, we’re pitching for a camping experience.

Without the actual camping of course. After a day of the ‘world is the wrong way round’ jetlag, we’ll be taking 14 day possession of this confused truck. Is it a car? A caravan? An integral part of a Blitzkrieg armoured brigade?

Like a stuka. With wheels A truck mates with a caravan.

No this Mercedes is the latest in touristy mobile homage, with an upstairs bedroom to banish the kids, LCD TV, DVD Player and some cooking stuff. And a fridge to keep my beer cold. It’s also the thick end of eighteen feet long which suggests I may need to practice with my car towing the trailer, and Carol’s wagon roped on behind.

So I’ve taken soundings from my friend Martyn who is all things camper van. His sage advice can be distilled into this:

1/ There’s a lot of truck out back. Think about that when turning, reversing and – most importantly – overtaking

2/ Keep an eye on the “dirty water“. The consequences of a high pressure blow back are really too horrible to contemplate.

3/ Procure a Driving Hat. On donning said headgear, a chain reaction of packing outside stuff, expensive electronic goods, and – if time – the children shall be triggered. Anyone not on board in 60 seconds is hitching.

Sounds good to me. And the kids are belted in so far back from the cab, they could easily be in a different country. And while I like the sound (or lack of it) of that, I’m hankering after watching TV while I’m driving.

I mean, really, what could go wrong?

* I refuse to accept that Golf is a verb. My American colleagues insist on twittering on about “I’m off for a weekend golfing”. But – because I ensure that Bad Grammar Hurts – they never make it. Honestly, if we taught English with a copy of the light program and a baseball bat, the world would be a simpler place.

Morning blues

On By AlexIn Bikes, Pretentious nonsense, Road Riding5 Comments

Step carefully into the darkness. Grope for a frosty door guarding the entrance to the hard transport option. Shiver and fumble, with cold fingers, for riding gear. Add an extra layer and wheel out into the pre-dawn light. Clip in and fire shotgun audio – bang, bang – into the still of an icy world.

Crank carefully on white roads. Imagine a painful future through squirming tyres. Feel the freezing sizzle of 23c of slick on nature’s glass. Then, carefully risk upping the power needed to heat freezing extremities. Watch a crescent of fiery orange imperceptibly ascend over the low hills. Marvel as the layers of primary colours – reds and blues – push back the night.

Frozen water from autumnal storms forms winter crop circles. Long shadows are cast from bovinely stupid but contextually perfect cattle. Stop, dismount, abandon the bike to spiders busily icing Mandelbrot patterns. Marvel at this planetary show of fire and ice, until freezing hands and leaving trains drive you on.

Snick a couple of gears. Pity those unknowing stuck behind airbags and fiddling with heater controls. Sweep into the station and catch a little slide on untreated tarmac. Ignore the warmth of a stuffy waiting room. Grin at a hundred identical city coats and useless patent gloves.

Feel the morning blues. And reds – freezing fingers and hot blood mirror the colours of the sky. Stand on the platform now, savour the feelings of being warm and worthy. Remember why you ride a bike. Smile.

Hold the front page

On By AlexIn Bikes6 Comments

See that post down there? It out of date by exactly one bike. This absolutely is not my fault although any help you can offer to counter the argument “When we booked to go to NZ, you promised not to buy any more bikes” would be appreciated. Right now I’m going with “I forgot” but it’s a bit thin.

I am clearly a proper cod in need of battering. But – in my defense – I was about pay the fella who generously lent me Verty Heft some months ago. But, in a never to be repeated planetary alignment, the tractor beam that is Sideways Cycles pulled in my feebly resisting wallet with an offer that no sane man could refuse.

No sane man who doesn’t value his testicles anyway.

So when the option is between saving a few quid, making good on a deal with a mate and working a bit harder on the hills, against spunking/wasting/profligately hosing investing a small sum on a super light and frisky frame, predictably I capitulated.

I’m sure it’ll be fine though. I’ve asked Tim to package in the shape of an interesting Christmas present for Carol, bribed posty to sneak it round the back and popped round the local sports shop for a cricket box.

It’s going to be fine. Isn’t it? 😉